I Don't Want To If You Don't Want To
by strawberrieNinja
Summary: Wrift drabble oneshot. Grumpster Decepticon Deadlock slowly becomes a person, a person very much adored by Wing.


**Pairing:** Drift/Deadlock x Wing

**Summary:** Maybe this will grow into something that's actually a story… In the mean time, musings on Wrift life in Crystal City. I guess.

D:

**Rating:** T (robots making out, mention of abuse and prostitution, mostly just robots making out)

Wing laughed patiently as Drift scowled through festivals and outings, smiled sternly as they sparred and Drift slowly, slowly learned. He was teaching the gruff Decepticon how to watch, how to listen. One needed to observe, anticipate, and counter, not just in fighting but in life in general. Drift had no lack of ambition or stamina when it came to fighting, but his amount of finesse was embarrassing, and the ardor he applied to his battle tactics was virtually non-existent in all other areas of life. He had been built on a faulty foundation; it wasn't Drift's fault, so Wing was honored to be the one giving Drift a chance to grow up all over again. They were starting fresh.

Over the weeks, Wing took him to sweets shops, museums, temples, game stores. He showed Drift the things that had instilled in him the wonder and joy of living, had ingrained in his spark the ability to see and appreciate the beauty in anything. Wing stood by proudly as he watched Drift's consciousness expand. He watched him grow a conscience.

But that was not quite fair. Drift had a conscience. It had been abused and twisted, but it was there, and it was beautiful. As Drift had explained, his reason for joining the Decepticons had been to help others not end up like him, alone, starving, forgotten, so it went without saying that Drift had some amount of empathy towards fellow his mech. Wing was helping Drift to patch his sense of morality back together, to straighten it out, hoping to nurse it from its invalid state.

Dai Atlas and the council: they didn't think Wing could do that. They said he was wasting his time. But they weren't looking at Drift. They were staring straight at a Decepticon badge, not at a person. That badge blindsided them, made them forget that a Decepticon was nothing more than another Cybertronian who wanted a better world. They looked right through Drift. They didn't see him at all.

In that respect, they weren't much different from Drift himself, Wing thought. Both sides could use a few lessons in observation and perspective. There was so much good in the world; why only focus on the inadequate?

Thus Wing was undaunted, because he saw what they did not. Drift was already good; he merely needed help remembering that. He just needed to be shown it was safe to be happy, that Crystal City was not going to take from him and use him like the desolate streets of Cybertron had. In Drift's world, letting yourself love something only hurt you later because it would inevitably be taken away from you. Others could easily exploit that feeling as a weakness, control you by it. This was what Drift was used to, but it wasn't what he had now. Not anymore. He was safe here, if only Wing could make him see. Wing wanted so badly for Drift to let himself be happy. Primus knew he deserved it after all he had been through—and Wing didn't even know the half of it. There was only so much he could descry.

Everything he knew was based on snippets here and there, admittances from Drift that were vague yet clear enough for him to infer was Drift meant, mannerisms that could only result from certain patterns of abuse or negative conditioning. Wing had guessed at Drift's exploits in substance abuse, self-worthlessness, and prostitution. He knew of the lonely mech's existence in the grimy streets, starving and hopeless. He knew of the brutality of Decepticon hierarchy, even gleaned the nature of their sexual habits—that it was something forced, bartered, shameful. It made Wing cringe to think of interfacing that way: impersonal, a means of payment or ownership. Something so intimate should never have to be painful. It should never be done for any reason other than wanting to share pleasure with another. Interfacing should be mutually enjoyed, but it was clear Drift perceived the act as very one-sided.

It goes without saying that Wing was not about to push, but he would have been lying if he said he did not want to teach Drift in this area as well. Interfacing was as much a part of life as anything else they did together, and it was unfair for Drift to be excluded from it. When they sparred sometimes, or when they had rare moments of honest understanding, Wing could feel a longing grate against him from Drift's field. Drift did not know how to control his electrons, how to effectively communicate with his field, but Wing did. Wing could feel that tug against him from Drift interlocking with his own charged particles and clinging to him, trying to reel him in. He came to recognize that the sudden irate look or insult was not directed at him, but merely a by-product of Drift's not knowing how to ask for affection, of not even knowing he was allowed to want it. It was as if Drift hated himself for feeling…attachment or desire, whatever it was—lust even—for another.

Wing couldn't breach the subject. How could he explain away every misconception Drift had on intimacy in a way the Decepticon would actually believe? He had so little trust in anything Wing did as it was. If Wing ever tried to invite or solicit affection he would probably see it as a trick or –Primus forbid!—a punishment of some sort.

Wing didn't push, but he couldn't help flirting.

It was adorable at first, the way Drift would scoff or get mad whenever he realized what was happening, but slowly—_slowly_—he started to accept it as genuine rather than Wing mocking him. He began to anticipate the lingering touches that might have actually been caresses, the way Wing would dip his face close when they sat on a bench in the park or a gallery, as if expecting some specific response from Drift. He began to realize the reason he got angry at Wing for smiling at him wasn't because he thought the swordsmech was being condescending, but because it actually looked like genuine affection—and that was just stupid for him to be thinking. What made him angrier was that he wished it was real, that he _wanted_ Wing to love him.

But it wore at Drift. When Wing smiled, sometimes he smiled back. When Wing took his hand to lead him on some new adventure, he followed without grumbling or dragging his feet. He found he liked to test how close Wing would allow him to sit or stand next to him. He started to wonder what it might be like to reach out to Wing, the way the red and white swordsmech did to him, and maybe return some of the compassion he had been offered. He started to think this whole ordeal wasn't just some high and self-righteous Knight pompously trying to "save his soul" or whatever, but actually that Wing saw something special in him and wanted only for Drift to see it too. Drift started to think… that he cared about Wing, that he would miss the handsome jet when he was finally allowed to leave and rejoin the War.

He was still muddling through notions of things like empathy and compassion one evening when he sought the swordsmech out and discovered him standing outside on the balcony. Wing began talking about Crystal City's imitation star dome. He was explaining how scholars had collaborated with astronomers and built a series of projectors throughout the city that shone on the ceiling of the underground city. Those projectors mapped out a replication of the constellations visible from Cybertron. As Wing detailed the mechanics of it all, Drift leaned his arms on the banister too, and their closeness didn't feel like an intrusion.

Wing welcomed his presence with a sliding embrace of his EM field and a gracious smile. He was pointing out a constellation now, asking Drift if he knew any, if Drift wanted him to teach him. The Decepticon nodded, interested but not really paying attention. He glanced up to where Wing's digit pointed now and then, but he preferred watching the jet's face as he spoke: The shimmer of his slanted optics, the patient smile on his mouth, the calm of his entire being. It was like a sanctuary. Wing was his safe place. Not the city, the balcony, the house—Wing.

Wing was gentle, forgiving. He wouldn't mind if…Would forgive him if… Drift leaned in closer so their shoulders met. Wing only rubbed against it in a friendly manner, cocking his head closer to Drift's, probably thinking Drift only wanted to get a better view of which "stars" he was pointing to.

"See?" he asked, and Drift nodded, his cheek decals brushing Wing's cranial fins.

Drift started to angle his helm subtly. Wing was talking about some legend with a hunter that died to protect whatever and got put in the heavens for it or something. Drift was too busy nuzzling his cheek and the side of his nose against Wing's fin.

The red and white jet paused, bringing his hand back in from pointing. He sighed and it sounded lonely, nestling into Drift's motions. He turned his helm with dim but hot optics, his face radiating a higher temperature than usual. With a sad, hopeful sound, Wing rubbed his nose against Drift's and breathed.

Drift met him halfway when Wing shifted for a kiss.

Drift would normally be all teeth and tongue, but for Wing he was… a little less teeth. He spun around the swordsmech to pin him to the banister, to which Wing made a sound like laughter. Drift pressed his body into him, bending Wing slightly over the edge until the jet's wings flared. There were hands he noticed on his jaw, on his chest, sweeping down his torso and steadying his hip, which he realized was occasionally rocking into Wing. Drift's hands were on the banister, trapping Wing, keeping him. The angle forced the jet into a slight recline, his head tilted upwards to meet Drift's mouth.

Coming to himself, the racecar drew back, not yet regretting his actions but not sure of them either. He knew there was a huge culture difference between the two of them. What if he had just asked Wing to marry him or something? What if Wing had just accepted? What did kissing mean to the Knights?

"Drift," the yellow-eyed jet breathed against his lips, making him want Wing all over again, anything to hear that tone of voice again. Wing was rubbing his lips against Drift's, holding Drift's cheek-guards and moving his lips as if talking. With a growl Drift dove into the teasing sensations, only to have Wing demurely tuck his head to one side.

Drift faltered, thinking he had stumbled into some ritual and now was messing it up, but Wing glanced up at him encouragingly. The Knight returned to nibbling his lips, holding Drift's helm steady. He was chewing with his lips, brushing their lips together so_ lightly_ Drift could feel the slight warm ventilations coming from Wing's mouth. He drove forward again only to be casually avoided a second time. His engine snarled in frustration. Wing wouldn't stop plucking at his lips, giving those damned gentle licks and lightly sucking or brushing against him. With an impatient roar of his engine Drift shoved his whole torso forward, grabbing at Wing's helm to keep it from evading him and kissing the Knight hard. He felt vibrations of laughter against his lips, tasted it on his tongue. The laughter melted languidly into a sigh into a moan as Drift shared Wing's flighty glossa, yanking it into his mouth and sucking forcefully. With some sense of triumph he felt the Knight's hands slip from his helm to his hips, melting down his sides like oil.

"Mmm…m_mmm_!" Wing rocked his helm upwards in an easy push and pull motion, stabbing his glossa into the roof of Drift's mouth each time. Drift's hands dropped, clawing at Wing's aft then rubbing the jet's pelvic plating. Wing trilled as Drift's hand yanked at his skirting panels, trying to pry his way to Wing's interface cover. The boiling electrons around Drift scalded Wing, whipping his own charge into a frenzy. Primus, when Drift wanted something, he _wanted _it! The Decepticon's field was trying to engulf him, swallow him whole. It made Wing's processor spark at the sheer magnitude of Drift's passion. He was ready to agree, to lead Drift into the bedroom if only Drift would let up for a few seconds to let him speak. After several thwarted attempts at removing his mouth, Drift took the hint but twisted its meaning, leaning back enough to finger Wing's interface hatch and bury his denta in Wing's neck cables.

"Drift~" Wing moaned.

Said automobile rumbled possessively and boisterously ground his palm against Wing's hatch, listening to how the raw friction switched Wing's cooling fans on.

"Aa_aah_…no, Drift…" Wing clung to the Decepticon's back to steady himself, keep his wits about him as his vents panted.

At the unexpected sound of denial Drift halted, fans whirring, but didn't remove his hand, didn't fully pull away from Wing's neck.

He was immediately angry. Angry that Wing would let him go this far before suddenly remembering that Drift was "the enemy." Angry that he couldn't have this because Wing would never be his to hold and touch. He would wait here in this position then, memorizing the smell and feeling of Wing's heated sleek frame until the jet explicitly told him to go away. If this was as much as he would ever get from Wing, he would savor it for as long as he could.

"Do…" came the breathy voice of Wing, probably ready to bring romantic philosophy into this, "Do you want to go inside and lie down for a bit?" His EMF was pulsing and hot like magma.

"…With you?" Drift ventured, suddenly not understanding what was going on.

Wing laughed, "Of course with me!" His fingers twirled in Drift's back gears, "Unless you prefer to be alone?"

Hard blue optics rose to scrutinize Wing's face, looking for some clue that this was a joke, that he was misunderstanding the implications.

"Just to be perfectly clear," Drift said with unnecessarily hard features, "You just invited me to interface with you, right?"

Wing laughed again, but this time much too loud. He dropped his gaze in what looked like shyness or embarrassment, which made Drift bristle uncertainly.

"Yes," Wing assured him. "Yes…I did." Heat was roiling off him in waves, blatant enough that Drift could feel it, the hunger in those vibrant electrons. What he could not feel acutely enough to understand was indeed a strand of shyness. Wing had wanted this but never knew how to approach it. He did not want to push Drift away after they had come so far.

"Okay." Drift nodded curtly, the gruffness back, the untrusting glint back in his optics that made Wing's spark ache. Wing wanted to kiss all that away, disrobe him of his doubts. But then Drift was snatching up his hand and yanking him inside through the apartment. Wing couldn't help but find it adorable, since it was usually the other way around: Wing dragging Drift along by the hand off to do something Drift would complain was "frivolous." In this case though, it was anything but frivolous. It could not be less frivolous.

Drift halted when they reached Wing's berth, looking to the Knight for instructions on how to proceed, assuming there was a special way to do this that he was too "uncultured" to know about.

Wing smiled warmly at him, raised the hand that clutched his and kissed it. As he began to suck on Drift's knuckle, he stepped backwards towards the berth and gracefully sat himself down, beckoning Drift to follow with a nibbling mouth on his fingers and warm honey optics. Drift placed his knees on either side of Wing's hips.

"Move up," Drift told him, pulling his hand away so Wing could maneuver backward. Just as Wing was ready to settle down, Drift pounced on him, locking Wing against him in a continuation of their interrupted kiss. Drift's elbows were on either side of his head, almost not fitting because of his turbines and sweeping cranial fins.

The Decepticon was surely rough, but not as rough as he could have been. He would yank hard at Wing's propellers, his skirt panels, squeeze or claw at him, but then stop short as if realizing what he had done and pet the area instead, apologizing physically with a gentler touch. And he wanted to touch. He wanted to touch all of Wing, from the jet's cheek jewels to his tapered chassis to his knee spikes and beyond. There was no way of knowing how long this would last, how long he would be allowed this, so he had to take as much in as he could while it lasted.

It was this hunger, this dread sense of urgency that buffeted Wing's field like a storm that the jet found so compelling. No one had ever wanted him this badly. No one had ever held him down and clung to him like he was the day's final rays of sunlight, as if a new day would never come again. He sang moans into Drift's hurricane of pampering touches and all-encompassing EM field. He let it all wash through him like electricity through his circuits. It felt _good_. It felt good to be wanted like this. To be trusted like this. Drift was bestowing his frame with kisses and coddling wherever the wild mech could reach. Wing was being covered in fierce affection. He couldn't help swooning, because he knew how much this must mean, and what it must mean to Drift. Wing knew how much this normally would have bothered him, how lowering himself to a position of tenderness, service without gain, was something life had mercilessly beat out of Drift. Here it was allowed. Here it was safe. The amount of trust this took was overwhelming, and Wing acknowledged it with matching softness. He welcomed, cherished every gesture Drift offered: the brush of lips on the steel-colored cylinder on his hip, the palm that pressed up his pointed chassis, and the thumb that wheedled into the seems opposite. He welcomed the relieved, loyal sigh and tongue on his collar platform, the flat strokes doubling back and up until it reached his chin, reached his lips. He even welcomed the vindictive playfulness of said glossa, fumbling his attempts to wrap his lips around it. It would appear Drift was a quick learner when it suited him. Open mouth with moving lips against a wagging tongue: it was a game rather than a tease, and although Wing's lips were pursed to grab it, the corners of his mouth were straining to smile.

"Come here!" Wing laughed, adding more rules to the game by pulling Drift's head low enough to suckle the now captive glossa. Ventilation fans sighed around him, rustling Wing's field and tickling his derma when Drift melted into him. Wing's own fans chirred in response, his turbines humming. Inside him was something thick and boiling, something he was scared to let spill lest it burn Drift, make him recoil, but it was burning Wing to hold it. He needed to pour it out.

"Drift," he whispered into flexible lips. A kiss distracted him, changed his lines to moans and sighs. "Mnmmm, I," he angled his head away, petting Drift's cheek-decal to call attention. A second hand mirrored that one, curling around the side of Drift's helm and holding him steady, supporting him.

Dim but attentive optics glowed back at Wing, close enough to mix with his own light and casting a green tint over their nasal structures and cheeks.

Wing sighed, momentarily forgetting himself, leaving Drift a clear opening for a kiss—an opening Drift was just moving to exploit when Wing remembered, "I love you."

Drift froze midstride to Wing's mouth, the breath of words tickling his lip plates. That tiny hush of breath might as well have been a hurricane.

_LOVE._ No one loved him, least of all perfect pretty jets in Crystal City. He was unable to stop himself from analyzing those words, terrified it was some sort of trick, that Wing couldn't possibly mean that, that this whole situation was no more than a ploy and not an act of affection at all. The taste of crumbled trust was pooling on his glossa and he swallowed thickly.

Wing caught the withdrawal in Drift's optics the moment those words left his vocalizer. He felt the tension in Drift's servos and backpedal of his EM field. "Drift…" He tried to reassure, petting the striped armor on his cheek, caressing that turbulent field with his own. He was bearing himself to Drift as intimately as he knew how, desperate to prove his verity, desperate to reel Drift back in. He was slipping away, but Wing clung tight.

"It's okay," he whispered to those fragile blue optics, "You don't owe me anything. You don't need to love me back. I just needed you to know—beyond a doubt—that this is why we're here, this is why this is happening."

And all at once Drift felt filthy. That someone so clean and good would think he should offer himself up to Drift like that shamed him. He didn't deserve this. This wasn't why…Drift had been trying to show Wing how much the jet meant to him, but Wing had turned the tables by reciprocating the feeling. It felt like seduction. It was like Drift had lured this angel from the light, tricked him into seeing a side of Drift that would never really exist. It felt like corruption. Wing was merely too sheltered to know better than to mix with people like him.

Drift was shaking his helm then, trying to persuade Wing to reconsider.

"What?" Wing chuckled, serene, playful, "Just accept it!" as he smoothed his thumb over Drift's curved cheek-guard. "It's _okay_," he repeated.

And just like that it was too much for Drift to resist. If he was wrong for doing this, he would have to answer to consequences later.

"I want this," Wing insisted, pulling the other into a kiss that radiated far too much gravity for Drift to escape. Again Drift was sinking into him, whimpering into Wing's mouth, grabbing his helm fins and caressing the white enamel reverently. "I want us to make love."


End file.
